


Fan Makers

by IamHobbes



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe - Historical, Gen, Les Mis Across History
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-12
Updated: 2013-07-12
Packaged: 2017-12-19 06:18:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,617
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/880429
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IamHobbes/pseuds/IamHobbes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For fan makers at any given place, any given time, life seems to be the same.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fan Makers

_Pasig, Hulyo 7, 1892_

_“Pamaypay! Bili na, bili na! Abanico!”_

That is what the children scream until they are hoarse. _Buy now, Doña! Don!_ The mighty Juan and his lover, Maria, gliding in their magnificent robes ala _Adarna_ , carefully walking over the crying and the shouting and the trouble they’ve caused. They clutch their rosaries that dangle loosely on their wrists, crossing themselves as they fan away those miserable worries, those half-dead heathens that clamor over their spit. Each white, elongated, upturned nose sniffing in disgust. They’ll moan and sob about missing their Glorious Motherland but, they’ll whisper in relief because now, here, in the Poorest Nation, they are the wealthy, dominant and pampered. This is what they’ve come to believe, what their children and their children’s children have come to learn: _Viva La Español!_ Long live the kings of the slaves.

There is a calesa parked at the edge of the road, painted gold to match señorita’s fan. Her husband is perched by the mare, flicking at it idly. The country’s heat attracts flies and boredom. There aren’t even roads to walk on. Not for them, these children, neither for Luna, del Pilar, Jaena or Rizal. Once children, now soldiers, marching away to pick the fruit of the vine: _Kalayaan._

_Kalayaan_ , the word met with sighs; the word that no English can replicate. It is freedom, independence and liberty uttered as one. It is the vastness of the sky, spilt blood and victory all at once. It is the spirit of the rising people, their tears and cries and sweat and love and longing and the weight of the world lifted from their shoulders. It is the laughter of chattering old women, the lullaby of new mothers, the songs unsung and the whispered words of those will not let go. It is the first sip of wine and the last kiss on the cheek, once you’re ready to slay a man. It is the girl you sing to every night, wishing for her hand. A voice which has been silenced but a tune carried out by the birds. It is, needless to say, the window of light that has been barred.

It is a danger but never a burden, so say the scholars, or more rightly known as ilustrados; the learned indio, the ‘savages’ who have reached the standard of education of the mighty white man, taught by the white man of the greatness of white men. Such as their Jesus, who they worship and pray to on their knees while their hands point accusingly at brown skin. Padre, they chirp. Save us, they beg while they preach, with the disgusting passion of a foolish hypocrite. They knew the story by heart, even if they hadn’t read the novels. They had the bruises to prove it, more than a hundred years’ worth. And, after a hundred years, a savior- Not white, not Spanish- comes along. With Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo as his sword and shield, the Doctor Rizal has gotten himself banished in Dapitan, with an entire revolution falling at his feet, ready to fight tooth and nail, trade an eye for ammunition and, most importantly, ready for kalayaan.

And yet, as war ensues, the children still beg for them to buy their fans.

_“Mga pamaypay! Baston! Pamaypay! Abanico! Bastón! Bili, bili na!”_

Some buy the fans, some buy the walking sticks. Some spit on the child who is clutching both in his quivering fingers, shaking them in those white beasts’ faces, praying to their God that food would reach his path tonight.

The Spaniards leave. Apparently, no food tonight.

But something more satisfying was coming.

——-

_Agosto 25, 1896_

He does not have a name. None of these children do, most likely. If they did, it wasn’t theirs to keep, so they were told, neither this land nor their lives. They answered to taunts, cries, whispers and blows. What care did they have for names? They have no part in it, no nothing of it, and yet it revolves around them. All were orphaned.

Instead, they called each other the names that were heard and praised. The running boy who carried bundles of scraped, misused papers, they called Jose. His father, a polista, was lost to him, carried away to work in Visayas or some place out of his reach; the mother, fifteen years earlier, as she gave birth to him. The girl sitting by his left, with her frail hands reaching for the intricate cloths that dragged along the roads, so hungrily, so brokenly was Gabriela. Her brother, by her right, was Apolinario, a mute.

The boy that they circled, who shouted over the pale monstrosities, the mud and the ache and continued to fold and make the fans was called Andres. After the famous fan-maker himself, the one they hailed Bonifacio, the leader of The Katipunan. The man who had somehow blossomed into a hero before everyone’s astonished eyes. He, who donned the bolo knife and a heavy heart, glowering at those vainglorious Spaniards. These children, whose eyes were always filled with tears, dried their eyes to see him clearly lead them to victory. Afterall, he was one of them- street children with no earthly notion of rest. He learned to read, write and lead- whilst feeding his younger siblings. They could hear his voice ringing through these very streets, his cry for justice. They cheered for him, Mabuhay si Bonifacio, chirping happily while they toiled. Long live. _Mabuhay._

Andres, a boy of fourteen, hurriedly handed out his products, gritting his teeth as dust filled his eyes. He fought hard and well to be called Andres. He folded and painted and carved until his tiny fingers bled through the nails, stinging until it became numb, which was the only time he consented to stop. He would not sleep until the stars faded. He learned to work in the dark, in the trees, through the rivers and above tears. He seethed at those self-righteous _padres_ , glowering as their white hairs fell on the stone path which his father might have made. He taught himself to read, to love to read and to want to read, to need it; to hunger for knowledge, to search for it, to pry it out of the cold brute’s claws, even if it was far out of his reach. He _had_ to be Andres.

The children sat outside the University campus, handing out pieces of their lives away in those little folds of paper. _Santo Tomas_ , it said on the walls. Crowds came and crowds left, swiftly drifting by as if a river carried them all along, from future lawyers to doctors. The children sighed wistfully.

When the throng of students thinned, Andres gingerly readjusted his cap. A special delivery was in order, he knew. The campus was silent and his friends were packing up. He nodded to himself, inhaled, and approached two students who were standing near a tree. They smiled as he came up, looking more eager than they should have for the presence of a mere fan-maker.

He couldn’t help it either. Andres smiled, shyly, dashing towards them on his bare feet. It felt good.

“Slow down, my friend!” the tall, gangly student laughed, patting Andres’ shoulder. “Or they’ll think you are trying to rob us, yes?”

“They can think what they want,” Andres retorted, smirking. The two students laughed harder.

“So,” the other student, the stockier one, said, nudging the boy, “Do you have it?”

“ _Opo_ , yes.”

“Good, good!” he muttered, elbowing his companion. “Quick, give it here.”

Andres took of his cap and took out a folded paper, printed on and slightly damp from its hiding place.

“Excellent. Thank you for going through the trouble for getting us this _diaryo_ , friend. We heard this one would be important, you see,” the stocky once explained, grinning.

Andres simply nodded, collecting his pay from the tall one. The pamphlet was in English, which he had not the opportunity to learn. He rubbed his ankle as the two poured over it with furrowed brows and beaming smiles. He turned to leave.

“Wait- Friend, won’t you listen? Look, there is no report of it. Ha! I knew it.”

“Report of what, _po_?”

“The Cry,” the thin one whispered, “Men started ripping their _cedulas._ The Katipunan, of course. Bonifacio at the head.”

Andres’ heart pounded with pride. “Where?”

“Caloocan, I think. I heard it from a professor, accidentally cursed the entire indio race in class,” he scoffed. “ _Accidentally._ Bonifacio especially.”

“Bonifacio is a great man!” Andres snapped fiercely.

“Yes, yes, I know this. I said the professor, not I! I remember him being here himself, when I was starting my first year. You remind me of him, actually, always sneaking in some pamphlet or another- His pamphlets used to run out before I could get one, unfortunately. I did get to talk to him once, though-“

“You did? When? What did he say? How was he like?” Andres asked, his questions running together, intrigued and amazed. He could feel his heart racing, if not, soaring.

“Well, we exchanged a _kamusta_ and he sold me a fan,” the student answered, amused. “But, I saw him carrying a book. It was in French, if I remember correctly. With a flag on the cover, which, I should say, defines him well.”

The boy seemed to stop breathing, his cheeks full of brightness. He held himself, awestruck. He could hear his friends calling him from behind, waving their sticks and fans. He could hear their hunger, their need. He could hear their names, of heroes gone and past, dissolving in the wind. With this problem, he knew exactly where to go.

Katipunan.

**Author's Note:**

> Hulyo 7, 1892 is July 7, 1892 and is the day the Kataastaasang Kagalanggalangang Katipunan ng mga Anak ng Bayan or the Katipunan was founded.
> 
> Adarna is a reference to a story called Ang Ibong Adarna or The Adarna Bird. The people there are all kings and princesses and such, so a dirt poor guy wouldn’t really like the story, would he?
> 
> Luna, del Pilar, Jaena or Rizal: All Filipino heroes and ilustrados who were part of the propaganda movement. Antonio Luna, Marcelo del Pilar, Graciano Lopez Jaena and Dr. Jose Rizal.
> 
> Noli me Tangere and El Filibusterismo are books written by Dr. Jose Rizal that ‘lit the flame of revolution’.
> 
> "Instead, they called each other the names that were heard and praised. The running boy who carried bundles of scraped, misused papers, they called Jose. His father, a polista, was lost to him, carried away to work in Visayas or some place out of his reach; the mother, fifteen years earlier, as she gave birth to him. The girl sitting by his left, with her frail hands reaching for the intricate cloths that dragged along the roads, so hungrily, so brokenly was Gabriela. Her brother, by her right, was Apolinario, a mute."
> 
> The names of the children are names of the famous Filipino heroes/ heroines during the Spanish era. Jose Rizal, Gabriela Silang and Apolinario Mabini, who was a lame.
> 
> A polista is a man from 18 - 40 years old, I think, who is forced into labor by the Spanish for some time every year. They called it Polo y Servico, and could separate a man from his family to kill him from exhaustion without so much as a blink from the Spaniards.
> 
> I’m sure I’ve mentioned this countless of times in my blog but, Andres Bonifacio, like Feuilly, was a fan maker, an orphan and taught himself how to read. Also, he read Les Mis, which is awesome and was also one of the reasons I couldn’t outright write Feuilly and Bonifacio in the same fic because so many walls broken o-o


End file.
